Chapter 8
I sabelle wasn’t lying. She’s a fast learner.
She stays out of my way, keeps herself busy—always writing in that pink notebook.
We’re able to hit all the properties in town that were on my list. I wanted to get them done before a storm came in, so the townspeople were comfortable—and before we head into the hills to properties that require an overnight trip.
She continues to surprise me. She hasn’t lost her temper once, despite me not tamping down my attitude whatsoever. I’m not going to change myself or go out of my way for this chick.
I’m still not convinced she’s not going to poison me. She should hate me for how I’ve treated her. I should be ashamed. But I’m too empty inside to feel things like shame for longer than a fleeting moment.
My parents are good, kind people who taught us boys not to judge a book by its cover. I don’t know why the lesson never stuck for me. I’ve always considered myself a good person, but after years of self-imposed solitude, I’ve had ample time to reflect on my life.
Turns out I judged most people by what they looked like and what their reputations were. I surrounded myself with guys like me all throughout school. I always picked the hottest girls and didn’t pay any attention to any others.
The rumor mill churns in small towns like Swiftwater.
I’d heard about the Tate’s over the years.
I'd never personally had a bad interaction with any of them, but I can admit my impression of Isabelle was skewed before ever meeting her. I’ve heard enough not-so-hushed conversations about “Easy Izzy” over the years.
That she fucked so-and-so’s husband, or how she’d been ridden hard and put away wet back in high school.
I never questioned the rumors or heard anyone defend her. The court of public opinion marred their last name with an ugly smear after years of Ivy and Brad’s drinking and gambling. I was closed-minded enough then, and apathetic enough now, to not challenge the town’s scorn for her.
To my surprise, she’s an intelligent, kind, polite, well-adjusted young woman.
Every morning, she shows up to the lodge early or on time, with a cup from Bean & Brew that smells like cinnamon and coffee.
She wears work-appropriate outfits that vary slightly from the day before.
Jeans or leggings that hug every dip and curve, a pink T-shirt with a band, clever saying, or cutesy image on it, and boots that I don’t want anywhere near my ass.
Half the days she wears her combat boots—the other half she wears cognac brown cowboy boots that have seen better days.
I’ve never paid much attention to what people wear, but this girl is an enigma.
It's as if life spun a coin and instead of falling heads or tails, it stood straight on the edge.
She perfectly embodies both sides of the coin.
She's comfortable and stylish, edgy and rural, strong and sweet, intelligent and funny, and patient but persistent.
And she sure as hell calls me on my shit, but always in a polite, respectful manner that terrifies me.
I feel like I'm in a horror movie where the cute doll is luring me in just to rip the skin off my face later. An unwanted mental image of sloughed off flesh hits me a little too close to home. And now I’m pissed off.
I’ve almost made it through an entire week with Isabelle and no blood has been spilled. I’m shocked to be honest. I was sure she'd have eviscerated me by now with the way I’ve been treating her. My chaste misjudgment of her rankles and I find myself feeling guilty daily.
We're back at the lodge for the afternoon. I wrapped up all my tasks earlier than I expected because Isabelle jumped in and helped wherever she could. I’m not used to having help or letting people close enough to me to even offer. Her selflessness and competence make me feel like an asshole.
I find her in the foyer in an armchair near the fireplace snuggled up in a chunky knit grey sweater, boots off, legs tucked under her crisscrossed, chewing on the end of her pen.
Guess what color it is. The light pink plastic is a stark contrast to the luscious raspberry-colored lips that encircle it.
I wonder what they would like stretched around—nope.
Nu-uh. Not going there.
I’ve caught myself staring at that mouth this week more times than I can count. I’m lucky she hasn’t caught me.
I’m enraptured by her after only a week. The best path forward is to push her away.
I stand just behind the corner of her chair, shove my hands into my pockets, and clear my throat. She about comes out of her skin and emits a loud gasp-squeak. I didn’t mean to startle her but that was adorable as shit.
“Oh my god, Reid, you scared me! I don't know how someone as big as you can move so quietly!”
She's holding a hand over what I bet is her rapidly beating heart.
“Got the full list of properties we need to hit this season. Plotted them out on a map. Thought we could make a game plan.”
She blinks a few times and twists in her chair to face me. As she turns the page in her notebook to a clean page, I catch a glimpse of a detailed drawing of what looks like a bedroom. She’s a talented artist, I’ve noticed that much. Not that I’m nice enough to tell her that.
“No need to take notes, I’ll email you the full itinerary.
You'll ride with me in a company truck, no reason to take two vehicles. Don’t want you driving on some of those backroads when they're icy, or snow packed.” Since when do I give a shit?
I’d worry the same for any employee, right?
It has nothing to do with Isabelle. Or so I tell myself.
We go our separate ways for the day, and I take a deep breath, relieved to have space from her for two days. She charges the air around her, and I'm constantly aware of her every movement.
I’ve been working overtime hiding my fucked-up face from her and I’m ready to be alone in my cabin without a sweat soaked hat on.
I’m about halfway to the ranch when my phone rings. My truck doesn’t have all that “smart” shit, so I put on my hazards and find a place to pull off the road.
I pull my phone from my pocket to silence the ringer. Fucking James.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Hello to you too, little brother,” he says dryly. “Where are you?”
I'm already exasperated by this conversation. “On the way home, where do you think?”
“Perfect. You can come pick me up.”
“Pick you up for what? I’m not going out tonight.”
“You’re coming with me to the football game. Coach said they’ve got a great team this year and I told him we’d come.”
“Why the hell’d you tell him that? You know damn well I don’t go to shit like that anymore.”
“Yea, and I’m fucking sick of it. You need to stop hiding and feeling sorry for yourself and start living again.”
“Fuck off,” I bite out. “Besides, I got all my night chores and shit to do at the ranch this weekend.”
“Already did your night chores. I knew you’d use that as an excuse not to come, so me and Greyson tag teamed this afternoon.”
“Jesus, why’d you get Grey involved? He’s too busy for your shit.” I rub my hands up and down my face. “Fine but you’re driving because I’m havin’ a fucking drink.”
“Hurry up,” James says smugly and disconnects the call.
I'd rather lick the bottom of a horse stall than go to a high school football game. Reminds me too much of everything I’ve lost, and how far I’ve fallen.
I hate myself enough day in and day out without having it shoved in my ugly face. First time anyone says anything to me I’m leaving his ass and drinking in the truck.